


Drunken Ficlet: Deleted Scene

by greywash



Series: Drunken!ficlets [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:24:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Drunken!ficlet, archived from Tumblr. Unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked, as always.</em>
</p>
<p><strong>Anonymous requested</strong>: S/J, 69.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Ficlet: Deleted Scene

**Author's Note:**

> This was during the period where I was endlessly and obsessively rewriting and rewriting chapter 4 of "in deed accomplish our designs", and I just happened to have about a thousand words of 69 that I'd had to cut but was still just hanging out in my Trash folder in Scrivener, so I replied with that. If you want you can read this as a deleted scene from "The Good Morrow", but it works on its own about as well as any of the other drunken ficlets, so. Take your pick!
> 
> Anyway, deepthroating, _go_ :

Sherlock licks his lips, and nods, and John says, "I want to, again," and Sherlock nods, and manages, "Just—come here," and John's eyes go darker, wider, and his lips part, but he obligingly shifts around so his feet are tucked up against the headboard, and would settle there, like that, Sherlock's certain, if Sherlock didn't pull him over, tug John until John's knees are beside Sherlock's ears, before Sherlock slides down.

John exhales, bends his face down to kiss Sherlock's hip, and Sherlock pets John's cock with both hands because it is silky and warm and smells deliciously of John, wet at the tip—oh,  _salty_ , as John exhales against him.

"I can hold my breath for quite a while," Sherlock tells him, "but it'll be easiest if you let me breathe when you need to breathe."

"Sherlock," John sighs, meltingly warm, and Sherlock guides him, pulls John's hips just  _so_  above him, so Sherlock can relax, his head tilted back as he presses his lips to the head of John's cock. John breathes out, and shifts, and Sherlock feels John's lips just parting around him as he parts his lips for John. John shifts his weight, and Sherlock hears John breathe in, his belly just touching Sherlock's as Sherlock breathes in beneath him, and then John's mouth sinks down around him, and Sherlock has to reach up for John's arse and pull him down.

John pulls off, out, rolling to the side, and Sherlock props himself up on his elbow to look down at him. John has put his hand over his eyes.

"No?" Sherlock asks, uncertain.

"I'm—I could hurt you," John says, voice heavy and slow, cautious. "I don't know what I'm doing, if I—if I lost my balance, or."

He stops, and Sherlock shifts over, winds his left arm between John's thighs, and tugs him closer.

John exhales, and Sherlock kisses his hip, and John takes a breath in, and brushes his lips over as Sherlock brushes his lips over and John breathes, "Oh—I, okay," rubbing his hands—right, mostly; so Sherlock uses his right, mostly, sliding his hand down as John slides his hand down and takes just the very tip of Sherlock's cock into his mouth—oh, lovely; Sherlock could do this for hours. He sighs, warm breath sinking out through his nose as John takes him deeper so Sherlock takes him deeper, squeezes John's arse with his arm tucked between John's thighs, so John slides his arm between Sherlock's thighs, complete, a perfect mirror. John's mouth is loose, a little sloppy, which is glorious because then this will last longer, with Sherlock's hand sliding down as John's hand slides down to rub him, just behind his balls, which is, even this time, even after the other times, surprising. Heat is growing roots up from John's hands and John's mouth, winding together everywhere under Sherlock's skin, to bloom on his face in a rare warm flush; Sherlock's lips feel overfull, tingling, and then John breathes in and Sherlock breathes in and sinks down, down, down, so careful, so careful because it is John, because it is John, so Sherlock goes down a fraction of an instant behind him, and pulls off a fraction of an instant ahead, because so often, where Sherlock leads, John will follow.

The room is very still and very quiet. The air conditioner is off, and all Sherlock can hear is the faint buzz off the light, the rumble of the refrigerator, and their breath, their shared, synchronized breaths with silences in between as John takes him in as Sherlock takes him in again. When Sherlock's hands run over John's mostly hairless sides, the scrape of his fingertips is pitched just slightly higher than Sherlock's fingertips on John's fuzzy thighs; deep, deep down, when John is deep within him and Sherlock's breath is stopped, he thinks, for an instant, that he can hear John's heart beating, John's organs working, John's cells dividing, but that part's probably mostly nonsense.

"Almost," John whispers, rough and shockingly loud; "Please," Sherlock manages, and lies back, lies back and pulls John over, and this time, John exhales and moves with him, settles over him, settles his weight above him and presses his face to Sherlock's hip, mumbling, "Is this—is this all right," with his hand on Sherlock's cock, working faster and faster, torturously uneven, as Sherlock says, "Yes," as Sherlock's hands help John along, help John up and then  _down_ , so deep, so so deep, as John gasps out, "Ah— _fuck_ , Sherlock—" and Sherlock holds him in deep until he absolutely needs to breathe. His hands slacken on John's arse and John pulls back in an instant, and Sherlock sucks down air, once, twice, gasping hard as he pushes up into John's fist, as John is saying, "God, that's—that was—oh—" and then bending back down to fit his mouth over the head of Sherlock's cock,  _wet_ , and—and really, Sherlock really didn't actually need anything to make that one more intense.

Sherlock breathes: in, in, in. Logically, he must be breathing out, but he can't feel it, can only feel his lungs expanding, until he feels wide open, boundless, evaporative, and then John settles his cheek down on Sherlock's hip, and there is no place at all that Sherlock would rather be than inside his own body.

"Hello," he says, without thinking.

John's face is flushed. "Hi," he says, soft, rubbing at the base of Sherlock's belly.


End file.
